A WEEK IN THE LEBANON

Beirut and Byblos, Lebanon (8-14 September 2007)

Although I had secretly wished to go to Lebanon, the excuse that finally arose was that I needed a student visa from the British Embassy in Beirut (the one in Damascus only does “priority” visas – whatever that means). “Pullmans” (buses), service vans, and taxis used to leave from easily accessible Central Damascus (Baramke) only a month or two ago, but now one must go to Somaria/Garage Beirut, towards the outskirts of the city. Once there, I was approached by a gentleman offering a ride in his private car. As I was running late and was due to meet friends for dinner at 7pm in Beirut, I accepted – after countering his starting price to about half. He took my passport inside to make the arrangements with the authorities. In all, there were six people in his very large, leather-upholstered Buick Roadmaster. This is how it is done in Syria.

The trip took about 2.5-3hrs. The scenery was lovely, especially the closer one came to Lebanon. It was easy enough to leave the Syrian border, and the Lebanese authorities gave a visa for 25,000 Lebanese lira (~US$18; it is free for up to 48 hours). Once inside the border, a huge mountain rose in front of us; everything was green and I saw REAL trees (as opposed to most of the trees in Syria, which are rather wind-swept and scraggly). It is also the system that the drivers stop several times on either side of the border to buy products that they then sell on the other side. I suppose they buy any kind of Western products for market in Syria (as there is an embargo, I believe), while for Lebanon maybe they purchase food items or pharmaceuticals.

We climbed the mountain, driving past several checkpoints – the Lebanese Army has a high profile everywhere in these parts. At the top of the mountain, the air was chilly even, and the soldiers were wearing heavy coats – delightful! The trip is, I think, roughly 45 minutes from Damascus to the border, then another hour and more to Beirut. One first enters into the Beirut area from the mountains on high, sloping down to the Mediterranean Sea. It really is strikingly beautiful. Beirut proper is a vast, sprawling city of varied architecture – in various degrees of repair. My driver dropped us all off at our destination of choice; me to one of the cheaper Lonely Planet recommended hotels, the Regis. It lies in the area called Ain al-Mreisse, just north of the downtown, overlooking the sea, and within walking distance of most things that one would want to see in the city proper. The Regis Hotel is a rather small hotel and very basic, but at $25 a night, it is nearly the cheapest place to be had (indeed, all of the neighboring hotels are the really fancy varieties where the wealthiest patrons stay). But it works for me, having air conditioning, a private bathroom, and cable television – all things I have done without in Damascus.



Perhaps by the hand of Providence, as I walk into the hotel, whom do I see but one of my dinner companions, Luigi (from…yes! Italia). Apparently, he, too, has a Lonely Planet book. After I take my things to my room, he and I leave to go meet our other friend, Martin the Swiss. I have only met Luigi once, but he is very nice. He is very athletic (“I was tired this morning so only ran for ONE hour.”), but very gentle. Luigi is about 40, works for the city in Bologna, and attends university there – one of the most ancient in all of Europe. He studied Arabic in Damascus at the university for about two months.


Anyway, we walk along the Cornishe – the boardwalk around the coast – towards the lovely campus of the American University of Beirut (founded by American Presbyterian missionaries in the mid-19th century). Beirut is such a contrast to Damascus, it is practically European in feel. There are construction cranes as far as the eye can see, and practically every clothing or other store that one can think of is there. Whereas in Damascus the only American fastfood is KFC, here there are (in addition to KFC) McDonalds, Hardees, Burger King, Pizza Hut, and Dunkin Donuts (where, O Krispy Kreme, art thou?). But do not misunderstand me, for although I have missed non-Middle Eastern food somewhat, I have not really missed fastfood joints. It is probably more the variety of different ethnic foods that I miss. Although I did not find any Southern-style pork barbecue, cornbread, pecan pie, and sweet tea, there was practically everything else!


Although we are a little late, we meet up with Martin (whom I know from the Ma’had) at the Mayflower Hotel. He chose it simply as a convenient landmark. This is where all of the foreign journalists stayed during the course of the 16 year civil war. It is well-chosen, as it is surrounded on every side by other very tall buildings, the better which to block incoming mortars and rockets. Luigi had arrived earlier in the day, while Martin came a day earlier. It is nice to know people when traveling to foreign locales, especially in cities with reputations (undeserved or not) such as Beirut.

Following greetings, we head for an Italian restaurant called “Pasta di Casa” – another recommendation of the Lonely Planet guide. It is a very small place of only four or five tables inside; indeed they were about to turn us away for not having reservations when a table suddenly became vacant. The bruschetta and Spaghetti Bolognese were very tasty (all the pasta is homemade). We talk about what the others have done thus far in Beirut and about our time in Damascus. Luigi, growing up near the sea, has spent a lot of time at the beach. Martin went with a Spanish friend to an area called Jounieh, to the beaches and to the mountain of Harissa via the cable car known as “terrorifique” (properly, Teleferique), due to the abruptness of its ascent. At the top is the gigantic statue of Our Lady of Lebanon, her arms outstretched in blessing upon the land before her. Lebanon is a beautiful land with so very much to offer; if only she would know peace.

We end the night at the Hard Rock Café. There is a live band – featuring “Cynthia” – that specializes in ‘80s ballads and heavy doses of Shakira (who is Lebanese-Columbian, and thus extremely popular in the Near East). They are okay, but we wonder how one can have a rock band without a guitar player; besides the singer, they have a keyboardist, a saxophone player, and someone on bongo drums. Anyway, after a while, we all head home for bed.

The next day is Sunday, so – even though this non-morning person has a hard time arising – I head to the Rum Ortodox Cathedral of Beirut. It is in the downtown, specifically the Place d’Etoire, the center of which features a large clocktower – with a Rolex. It is not, perhaps, the easiest to get around Beirut, as there is construction everywhere and many roads are closed either for building reasons or by the Army. Ever since last year and the convergence of thousands of Hezbollah supporters in the downtown (their tents are still resident), soldiers have been in force in the downtown. As a result of this entire situation, business and human traffic has dropped dramatically in the downtown area. Nationwide elections are due to occur on the 25th of September, and one can but hope that stability shall follow…it could happen. Let us pray that it shall; the Lebanese people have suffered enough.

Around the Place d’Etoire there seems to be a religious edifice for every tribe of the country – the showpiece, almost. Lebanon officially recognizes eighteen different religious groups. There are churches for the Greek Orthodox, Greek Catholics, Maronite Catholic, Evangelical Protestant, and perhaps others; there are also several mosques, including a converted Crusader Christian church from the 12th or 13th century. I actually pass by Martin and Luigi drinking coffee at the Starbucks. I say hello and head to St. George’s. The church is pretty, but has a definite modern, new feel.
I believe it is ancient in its antecedents, but there are few structures that escaped damage during the war years. The bishop is preaching when I walk in (I mentioned that I overslept?), and there is a video recorder set up; from a later conversation, I understand that many Christian groups broadcast via Cypriot satellite back into the Middle East. He seems like a good preacher with a range of emotions and exhortations – but it is all Greek to me (or Arabic, is it were). There are, perhaps, about 75 or so people in attendance; perhaps more. But this is the Downtown, where few people live, and even fewer Christians, so it is a testament that there are that many.


Most everyone goes forward to receive Holy Communion, including myself. Afterwards, I take some of the antidoron – blessed bread – from one of the girl-acolytes and head back to my seat. Although Lebanon is part of the cultural Levant that Syria is, and the Orthodox Church in Lebanon falls under Antioch (i.e. Damascus), the antidoron actually tastes different; good, just different. In America, parishioners bake the bread for use during the Divine Liturgy, but in Damascus, it is bought at the local bakery. Now the bread of which I am speaking is called the prosphora and is a round loaf stamped in the center with a seal bearing the mark IC XC NIKA (in Greek, Jesus Christ, Victor). The center is called “the Lamb” and is cut out and is used as the Eucharist. The rest of the bread, called antidoron, is cut into pieces and is blessed during the Liturgy by the priest at the altar; it is a gift for everyone, not just the Orthodox faithful.

I have a revelation: in the East, the usual, daily bread is flatbread, whereas in the West it is leavened. On the other hand, Communion bread (prosphora) in the East is leavened, but unleavened in the West. Although there are/were theological reasonings behind this determination for the Eucharistic host (based upon descriptions in the Old Testament), I wonder if it was as important that the bread became more special for what it was not – the everyday common bread? Although we may not think it a major issue today, the question of using leaven in the bread was a divisive issue back in the day.

So the church was nice enough, if a little too modernistic for my taste. My friends have left from the café, but that is no surprise as it is already about 11:30am. I am due to meet my American friend Christi next to the main gate of the American University of Beirut in Hamra district. I figure that I will not have time to walk the distance (and given all of the construction, military checkpoints, and closed roads), so I hail a taxi. Well, not a taxi, per se, but a “service taxi”. The difference is that the latter picks up various people as he drives along his way; the price should be about 1,000-1,500LL (~75cents-$1.25). A taxi, however, is much more expensive. Proper prices, however, I learn about later. The fellow speaks fluent English, which, he endeavors to explain, he learned upon his own. He also exhorts me to give up on Arabic and study French or Spanish – easier and more practical, he insists. He charges me 5,000LL and I praise him for his honesty (what do I know? I always figure that praise will shame the person if they are false…maybe), but I am just as happy not to have walked 30 minutes in the hot sun, especially for $3.
The American University of Beirut, or AUB (as the locals call it), is, very likely, one of the loveliest areas of Beirut. Largely this is due to its magnificent campus, filled with delightful 19th century architecture and trees, trees, trees! [Perhaps you need to live in Syria for several months to appreciate the appeal of real trees to one from the heavily-wooded Appalachian foothills.] AUB is unique in that all courses are taught in English, and it is described as one of the premiere universities of the Middle East. It also means that the restaurants and Internet cafes around the campus are filled with fluent English-speakers.


My friend Christi comes along a little after noon and she looks content and happy. Although she has relocated to Damascus since May to study Arabic, she lived in Beirut for over two years and this is her stomping ground. As she tells me, yes, there may be occasional bombs or outbreaks of violence somewhere in the country, but, overall, life was much easier for an American in Beirut. She was, it should be added, out of the country when the war broke out last year, so this was her first opportunity to return – and reclaim all of her property.



She takes me to her favorite nearby restaurant, Zaatar w Zeit. This local chain serves light foods like sandwiches. In fact, we partake of the delicious bacon and tomato sandwich, which appears on the menu with a little pig to the left to designate it as a pork product in this normally Sunni Moslem area. The bread is flatbread, but soft and warm and delicious, I must confess. This happy Southerner has missed his staple of pork (especially barbecue!).

After an hour or so, we part ways after walking to Hamra Street (or Rue Hamra), a major shopping and restaurant district. I head left with the intention of walking to the National Museum. After 30-40 minutes, however, and still unsure of where I am (although a little suspicious that I have passed into the Hezbollah district south of the Green Line), I hail a service taxi. Once I remember the word for museum (al-maht-hahff; so apparently not everyone speaks English), the driver takes me there – no mean feat considering the number of closed roads and detours. The National Museum actually lies right along the Rue de Damas, the former Green Line dividing the city during the PLO-inspired 16 year Civil War. In front of the museum is construction equipment and piles of gravel and such; more progress, I suppose.

The museum was originally built during the 1930s, but was repaired (significantly) in the latter 1990s. The curators at the time of the outbreak of war in 1975 removed to safety all that they could, but the more significant pieces (such as sarcophagi and large statues) were encased in thick cement and placed in storage for twenty years. Most survived in excellent condition, but several suffered direct hits from mortar fire, while many of the smaller pieces placed in the basement were subject to flooding and thus damaged.

The museum is not the largest I have ever seen (two floors), but it is modern and aesthetically pleasing and has an amazing collection. There are plenty of Roman statuary, as well as sarcophagi with extensive friezes from the Egyptian, Phoenician, Hellenistic and later periods. Lebanon has always been at the crossroads of civilization and the trade routes between East and West. There is also a delightful coin collection spanning the ages. One of the best ideas they have is to place a moveable magnifying glass atop a large glass case of smaller objects – such as coins or minor figurines. In all, the collection dates from ancient times through Byzantine and Mameluke periods. I was likely at the museum for about 1.5-2 hours. I hope that it was simply that particular day, but I was one of only four visitors.

I walk aplenty here, so I took a service-taxi to the Place du Martyrs in the Downtown (near the Place de E’toire, where I was that morning). It is a large square near the sea featuring three structures: a statue of, I suppose, two martyrs; a Virgin Megastore; and a large, blue mosque that looks exactly like a smaller version of the ancient Church of the Holy Wisdom (Hagia Sophia) in Istanbul, which was itself converted to a mosque (I find that I sometimes have trouble identifying it from a distance in Istanbul, as most of the mosques seem to be based on this famous church of Justinian). Anyway, I am told that this mosque is relatively new and was either built by the lately-assassinated president, Rafiq Hariri, or else for him; but I think he is buried there no matter what. This area is also where Hezbollah supporters camped out in mass some while ago to protest the government; most have left, but their tents are still in residence. I do not exactly feel unsafe amongst the tents (there are more soldiers than protesters), but neither do I linger.

I wander back to the hotel, meandering along the coastline. This area is one gigantic construction site, with every modern (and, largely, upscale) Western store and shopping mall promised for the very near future. I arrive after 45 minutes or so, and head to my room to rest for a bit and to enjoy the air conditioning and television. I am due to meet my Italian friend, Luigi, at 7pm, which is not far away. By the time I make it downstairs, he is waiting for me. Luigi has spent most of the day at the beach; I think that the “oasis” of Damascus has been hard on him in that he is so far from the sea. He is also very athletic, which is not the easiest pursuit for a foreigner in Damas, especially in the torrid summer months.

We do not have an exact plan, but head back towards the al-Hamra area. Luigi is interested in trying Lebanese Middle Eastern food, but when we find a restaurant recommended by our guidebook and take a look at the menu, we find that it is just alike Syrian food – only much more expensive. So we wander back towards Rue Hamra and eventually stumble upon the American-style Roadster Diner. Apparently, this is also a small chain in Lebanon. All the waiters speak English, and much of the clientele consists of young university students (as, indeed, are the waiters). I settle on a bacon cheeseburger with barbecue sauce (the latter condiment being one of the major food groups in the South), while my friend has a Philly Cheesesteak. By the end, we are full and satisfied. On the way back to the hotel, we stop by an Internet café for a while. The first one we went to was quite visibly smoke-filled, but this latter one was okay. The first thing that we notice is that the Internet speed is actually “high-speed” – so much faster than in Damascus. That said, towards the end, there were connection problems, so perhaps consistency is not the best. The cost was about 3,000LL for one hour ($2.25).

On Monday, my singular task is to arrange my student visa at the British Embassy. Thankfully, it is not far from my hotel and I easily walk the 15 minutes. I say “easily”, but, in truth, it was only easy as the crow flies, for there were again the dead ends and military checkpoints. But eventually I make it there. I am hopeful that it will not take very long, so I have not yet eaten nor brought any food (only a book and my documents). The website said that they open at 8:30am, but when I arrived at 8:45 (not being a morning person, ahem), there is a line of probably 25 people (with more inside; I end up being number 46). There are three Embassy trailers adjacent to each other: one Japanese, one British, and one Australian. At first I thought that they were actually the embassies in question, and I was quite perplexed. But, no, they were only the first security entrance, set a quite a distance from the embassy proper. Although the line for the UK Embassy was winding and lengthy, those for the other two embassies were non-existent.

Once inside, I ended up sitting in the hard and sometimes backless chairs for four more hours (so six in total). I read some, chatted some with a few neighbors. One in particular (#47) was my companion-in-boredom; she was hoping to visit her daughter in London. She noted to me that most of the crowd was not Lebanese. One family in front of me was Iraqi. Eventually, I was called forward to give over my documents, state my request, and pay the substantial fee of 317,000LL (99 British pounds sterling; US$200) – non-refundable, even if refused. A little while later, I was called again to another booth for electronic fingerprints. I was then told (by the not very friendly lady) that I needed to call on Thursday to see if my application had been approved. I was rather shocked and was sure to explain that I had come all the way from Damascus and what was I to do? But she was not very sympathetic, and my options were limited; she did, at least, give over my passport. I had not planned to stay so long in Beirut, but what could I do? And, in fact, an extra day was not that bad…provided that the application was approved and I could actually get the stamp on Thursday.

So, leaving the embassy, I head for a restaurant. My friend Christi had mentioned that there was T.G.I.Fridays not too far away, so I go in search of it. Yes, I confess, I was eager to take advantage of American restaurants. I enjoy Syrian food and, in truth, there is only a very little of which I have become bored (namely, streetfood like falafel). But the opportunity was there, and it was also likely that I would not have the opportunity in England, either. I did, eventually, find it, and I was not disappointed. I was one of the few patrons (I was later informed that the downtown has been rather dead since the Hezbollah-supporters arrived, whereas before it was a hotspot). My waitress’ name was Linda – I am always surprised here when the locals have very non-Arab names, which happens primarily amongst the Christians. I think that I had the chicken quesadillas, with oreo ice cream for dessert.  It is always nice to have a friend with whom to dine, but a book can also be a friend. Up to this point, I have been reading Michael Psellus’ Fourteen Byzantine Emperors, about the Byzantine Empire in the early to mid-11th century.

After dinner, I head back to the Place D’Etoire and go in the Bible Society store, just to look around. I end up chatting a while with the employee there (named Joyce, as you might have expected – such an Arabic-sounding name!), especially about religion and politics. The Christians with whom I discuss such things in Syria tell me that Hezbollah and Nasrallah are actually on the side of the Christians, whereas the Hariri’s want to make Lebanon into a Saudi-sponsored Islamic Sharia state. What I learn from Joyce, and a few others, is that their perspective is much different. It was not, after all, Hariri, that blew up the Christian churches in the south (in Tyre, especially) – but Hezbollah supporters. If they “protect” Christians, it is more as in the second class citizens of the Dhimmitude (as non-Moslem minorities were traditionally treated under Islam, to varying degrees, wherein they paid the heavy jizya tax and were allowed freedom to follow their religion, but not to evangelize or build new churches or rebuild old ones, etc,; often, they were forced to wear special, distinctive clothing, but were always viewed as inferior to Muslims and were less equal before the law). I see now that I cannot at all be sympathetic to this organization that invented the modern suicide-bomber technique, or that started the war with Israel last year and now sees itself as a hero-organization, never mind the massive destruction and division that they have caused upon their suffering country. It is valid to note that Hezbollah has a social services arm that is the best and most extensive in the country (especially in Beirut and southwards) and which wins it much support. Nonetheless, I think that the Christians are used by outside forces which do not care about them at all. The moral to me is that Christians in the Middle East should avoid taking political sides as best as is possible, but rather to pray for all sides and, especially, for the Peace from Above. It is not easy to be a Christian in the Middle East; it is a wonder that they exist at all, after 1350 years of dealing with this uncouth game.
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Well, I have procrastinated quite a bit in finishing this up and posting it, so I will just summarize a few more tidbits.

1. I went the town of Jbayl (ancient Byblos) just to the north of Beirut. Although I would have liked to also go to Tripoli in the north (specifically to Balamand monastery and university, and also Khalil Gibran's birthplace and museum), I was warned against it given my nationality. I also would have liked to visit Tyre and Sidon in the south, and while they would have probably been safe, I was rather wary given that I was on my own.

Before going to Jbayl, however, I first took a taxi to the Cilician Armenian Apostolic Orthodox Christian Catholicosate in Antelias (just north of Beirut, on the coast). This is a beautiful church complex in the lovely Armenian tradition, and they have a museum dedicated to the Armenian Genocide and to their lost heritage from Cilicia, in modern Turkey (around ancient Tarsus). I found it a great irony last year when Madame Speaker Pelosi was urging the House to recognize the massacres as genocide and the Turks threatened to retaliate [so much pride!] by limiting the US airbase that is located in Cilicia, an Armenian kingdom rooted in the eleventh century. These Armenians of Cilicia were often allies with the Crusader States (1098-1291) to their south, and after the loss of Jerusalem in 1187, Cilicia was arguably the strongest of the Christian states in the area. The Holy Roman Emperor sent a crown for the enthronement of the first formal king in 1198 (they Byzantine emperor accepted this act, as Constantinople was at that time in a weakened state, soon to be even more exasperated by the Fourth Crusade in 1204). Note that this is also sometimes called Lesser Armenia, distinguishing it from their original homeland of Greater Armenia (modern Armenia, eastern Turkey, and northern Iran).

Having attended the Divine Liturgy at Armenian churches in Aleppo and Damascus, one of the things that had struck me was the usage of an organ in the service. In the Orthodox Churches (Chalcedonian and non-Chalcedonian), services and chanting (singing) are usually unaccompanied. But this use of the organ was simply striking. It was not loud and overwhelming of the choir, but was rather quiet and truly meant to accompany and compliment the worship, not becoming a distraction in and of itself. I have only been to one other Armenian service, and this was a Vespers service at the Cathedral of St. James in Jerusalem, in 2004. That service was more in what I would expect from a typical Orthodox service, meaning with no instruments. The Armenian bishop of Jerusalem – under pressure from the Muslim Mamluk government [itself a great persecutor of Cilicia] – seceded from the Catholicosate of Armenian Cilicia in 1311 A.D. The reason given was that the Cilician Church had been too greatly Latinized and had forsaken to some degree the Faith of its ancestors. As a great ally of the Franks (Crusaders and Latin merchants), it is certainly true that many in Cilicia adopted Roman Catholic theology and liturgical practices. From the very beginning of the Latin entry into the Levant (the First Crusade in 1099), leading Armenian barons had married into the Latin nobility (or married their daughters); this would continue even after the collapse of Acre in 1291 with continuing relations with Latin Cyprus up until the final demise of independent Cilicia in the 1370s. Anyway, although I would certainly not accuse the Armenian Church in Lebanon and Syria of being “too Latinized” (not speaking Armenian!), I did wonder if the usage of the organ was a result of this. Likewise, the bishop I saw in Damascus had vestments and a mitre that looked quite Roman Catholic to me.

Besides the main cathedral church at the Catholicosate, there is a smaller chapel – I think actually a martyrium dedicated to the countless martyrs from about 1880 to 1925, a time of great tribulation for all of the Christians in the Near East. The museum was worth going to and was two or three stories, I believe. Most of the items on display were smuggled out of Turkey after the Armenian population either fled or were killed during the First World War. These items included numerous books of various age (many from the Middle Ages) and liturgical items such as beautiful priests' vestments and intricately carved bishops' staffs. I also enjoyed my chat with my young Armenian hostess (fluent in English). I asked her about the current political empasse and although I forget which side she favoured, I do recall that it was in contrast to the other Christians whom I had met and that it simply demonstrated how politically fragmented were the Christians in Lebanon. They also had a nice bookstore at the Catholicosate with books in many languages and I bought a small one dealing with the history of the Armenian Church in Cilicia and Antelias.

From outside the Catholicosate, I waved down a service van and asked him to take me to Jbayl. As in Damascus, the service really is the way to get around: cheap, regular, and efficient. Lebanon is such a beautiful country, framed by its incredible mountains. Soon we drove under the towering figure of “Our Lady of Lebanon” -- a giant statue of the Virgin Mary featuring a “ski-lift' taking people up and down (again, not for the faint of heart, I hear). Before very long at all, the driver dropped me off on the highway next to a bridge that took me to the ruins and touristy area of historic Byblos. I could see the ruins from the highway and it really only took about ten minutes to walk to the touristy area.

Three things stand out in my memory. One was a Greek Orthodox church located in what was clearly an old Crusader structure, at least the lower, remaining portion.
Secondly, down at the port, where there were many boats docked, I saw the remains of the Crusader fortifications that would have protected the port, including the remains of two towers. Note that Byblos was an ancient city long before the Crusades, but the great witness to the Crusader period (nearly two hundred years) remains these architectural specimen.
Thirdly, the castle grounds itself (which costs a small fee to get into) is also a major archaeological site. Indeed, a number of strata have been revealed, going down probably thirty or forty feet.
It is most interesting. And the points of interest are also well labeled. The castle itself is beautiful and has obviously been rebuilt in a number of ways. Not unlike elsewhere in the world. Large millstones were used around the base for support and they are quite noticeable.
Perhaps the most beautiful part is the bridge for the walkway leading up and into the castle. It is semi-circular at the base and makes for an idyllic photograph of the surrounding countryside.

Finally, I had lunch at the local Mexican restaurant. :-) Oh, how I do love Mexican food, and this was not bad at all. I figure that many Lebanese emigrated to Latin America just as they have to North America (think Shakira, for one), and doubtless some made their relative fortune and returned to their beloved homeland. Byblos-Jbail, then is a lovely town and I would recommend visiting. Although Tyre, Sidon, and Tripoli might be of greater interest historically and architecturally speaking, their safety factor to a Western traveler must also be considered.
I caught a service back to Beirut, although I ended up falling asleep and was awoken only after the driver had stopped and asked me where exactly I was going to (oops!). So, out I hopped and hailed a taxi.

2. On another day, I walked through some of the shopping districts headed northwest towards the coast. Beirut does not lack for want of shopping opportunities, that is truly a maxim. I ended up watching the film Ratatouille at a cinema in a mall. It was in English with Arabic subtitles, and it was entertaining. And now I can say that I saw Ratatouille in Beirut! I also finally had success with my student visa from the British Embassy. Although I had to wait for the better part of a week, they finally came through – and thankfully without such a long wait as my initial visit.

Although I had meant to go swimming in the lovely Mediterranean much earlier in the week, I actually did not get to it until my final morning. There are a number of private swimming areas (clubs to some degree), but the charge is to Western standards (i.e. fairly expensive, especially just for a few hours). The free beach was a bit further, and due to time constraints, I hopped in a taxi and was there before too long.
I had walked by there the previous day, so knew where to go. The beach itself was vast and beautiful. It was also, to my surprise, rather empty. Perhaps it was because it was morning – or, at least, that is what I told myself! When things are not as I expect (such as an empty beach), I always wonder if the locals know something that I do not. Arab countries are not known for their environmental consciousness and word was that that a lot of the eastern Mediterranean is on the polluted side. Nonetheless, I bravely went in and it seemed like the sea anywhere – beautiful and salty and a really nice time. There were also several lifeguards on duty.

So, finally, I checked out of my good-enough hotel and hiked myself to the area where one catches taxis for Damascus. Initially, I had several courters for my fee – until they learned that my Syrian visa had expired, and then I was pariah! At least, that is, until someone thought to say that they would take me at least to the border, but if the Syrian authorities were being difficult, then I was on my own. This was perfectly acceptable to me, so I readily agreed. I wish I had taken photographs or videos of my ride through eastern Lebanon, right up in the mountains. It is truly beautiful. As this is also the main road to Damascus, it is the one that is closed (or bombed), depending upon the conflict. Of course, there was no fighting during my brief tenure in Beirut. The driver – as expected – made his perfunctory stops for supplies to sell in Damascus, but we eventually made it to the border.

Once inside, the bored looking, middle-aged Syrian border officials looked at my passport and saw that the visa was expired and, without any hesitation, said: “Your visa is expired. Go back to Beirut.” What?!! But the officials in Damascus had told me to go to the border! What was I to do? Well, I am not usually overly excitable or a trouble maker, but I did get a bit excitable then, even in my broken Arabic. Actually, I was rather proud that I could communicate so well in Arabic. After a minute or so, they took my passport and told me to wait and that a new visa had to be approved from Damascus. Placated, and always having a good book to read, I went and found a spot to sit and read.

After a couple of hours, another American and his Argentine girlfriend asked me to watch their baggage whilst they walked over to the duty-free shops and restaurants in the building next door. The American was much older than his girlfriend, but we all made the most of it and helped each other out. An interesting part of traveling around (especially to less traveled areas such as Syria) is the great variety of people that one meets. This couple was also awaiting their passports. I checked in with the officials and they said there was still no word from Damascus, so we three went for dinner at the Italian restaurant in the duty-free building. No, it was not spectacular, but would you really expect it to be? But we enjoyed ourselves, nonetheless, trading stories and whatnot. Eventually, we headed back to customs and, getting the same response from the officials, I walked over to entreat with the fellow in charge. This gentleman was clearly at least a middle-ranking army officer, with his own office. He spoke English and was most positive in his encouragement. I really do not know if he perhaps called Damascus for us or if the process simply finally came to a head, but before long, we had our visas. Unfortunately, it must have been 11pm or 12am by then, which equates to a good 8-10 hour wait, at least. Was there a taxi to be had? As we walked through the actual Syrian border control, two very nice Syrian women offered us a lift. Such kindness and hospitality! And they delivered us to where we wanted to go, too. I recommended to my new friends the hotel that I had initially stayed at. After making sure they could get a room, I bid them a good evening and walked home, sleeping quite soundly.

© KS Parker (2008)